


Discreetly Band-Aid Where I'm Bleeding

by make_easter_gay_again



Series: You Go to Heaven Once You've Been Through Hell [1]
Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bittersweet Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Running Away, but it's only mentioned and there's no direct homophobia, georg gets outed, more bad mental health shit, oh boy it's another sad one, they are once again in a pickup truck, they're in high school because i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/make_easter_gay_again/pseuds/make_easter_gay_again
Summary: When he can’t stand hearing the circular argument for another second, he shuffles through a drawer for headphones and, after a long stare to solidify the worth of his next move, grabs his phone. As if it waited for this move, it buzzes immediately and is sent tumbling onto the floor. It lands screen up, bright in the dark room with a fresh text.Otto Lammermeier: You up for a drive?
Relationships: Hanschen Rilow/Ernst Robel, Otto Lammermeier/Georg Zirschnitz, but not in the way you think (or hope)
Series: You Go to Heaven Once You've Been Through Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761484
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	Discreetly Band-Aid Where I'm Bleeding

It’s too late for them to still be awake; still be arguing. What a special treat on such a special occasion. And it’s not like he can’t hear them. He’d have to be a block away to not know they’re talking- a loose term for what they’re doing- about him. As if the heaviest boulders hadn’t already come careening down the mountain to bury him, battered and crushed alive. To pretend they stole the show this late in the game, to dig up that part of him that still called any day a success he wasn’t stunned into silence by the puncturing voices that ricochet around the walls like a demented pinball game, would be naive. Water swells up in his eyes again, but he pinches them shut and grimaces through the burn. He’s shed so many tears already he worries he’ll wake up in the morning on the verge of complete dehydration. One more tear could be his end. 

The almost rhythmic buzzing of his phone on his desk slows to an occasional interruption to his lack of thoughts as the hours creep later. If the beat could relax him instead of jolt him more and more awake, he’d have fallen asleep hours ago. He stopped checking it for the name he hoped to hear from quickly. Easier, he decides, not to sift through apologies from few, frantic and insecure messages seeking confirmation he doesn’t see them shrouded in gay, golden light as he falls asleep every night from many. And one, the one that merely the thought of sent a claw to reach into his chest and rip out a new piece of his lungs, that still lies open on his phone, waiting to bait him into unlocking it. But he won’t. 

To the best of his knowledge, thank whatever guides the decisions of teenage boys, the one person yet to say anything at all is the one he can’t lie to. Not if he tried. If Otto asked if he liked him, he knows he couldn’t say no, not without sounding like a wounded animal dragging itself off of the highway. In this situation, he says nothing and hopes no one ever speaks to him again, which at least matches the responses he gave all the others. For god’s sake, Melchior fucking Gabor thought it important enough to ensure he knew he was straight, as if he somehow missed him making out with every girl that would pay attention to him. Like he had some sort of checklist. Barring for the moment literally everything else about him, why would he pick someone who plays the worst sport man ever created? He’d rather date a damn soccer player than a lacrosse player.

He’s a swimmer guy anyway. 

The drumming of his fingers on his mattress hardly drowns out the voices. He got through dinner without bursting into tears or being kicked out on the street, which could be considered a success, but success hardly sums up his evening. Or his day. Or his life, if he really thinks about it. They spoke very little, mainly his father asking in his voice full of insecurities that Georg recognized in his own voice if he planned to deny the accusations, at least to them, and the stress of the day ended up spilling out in a swarm of words about how he isn’t even _really_ gay, but no one cares what word he finds more fitting when they’re not talking to him at all. He likes guys, and that’s enough for all of them to find him repulsive. Hearing them try to decide “what to do about him” (what does that even mean?) fills his stomach with unpleasant reminders of the food he ate that day. 

When he can’t stand hearing the circular argument for another second, he shuffles through a drawer for headphones and, after a long stare to solidify the worth of his next move, grabs his phone. As if it waited for this move, it buzzes immediately and is sent tumbling onto the floor. It lands screen up, bright in the dark room with a fresh text.

Otto Lammermeier.

_You up for a drive?_

Involuntarily, he clutches at his chest and attempts to slow the major spike in his heart rate. But for all his relief at the lack of “never talk to me again you freak,” once his head is clearer, Georg’s chest still sinks a little. This situation feels more like the beginning of the end than two friends chilling on a Wednesday night. He considers ignoring it, like every other text, treating Otto like any other person, only he’s never been good at ignoring things that won’t leave his head. Still, the thought of losing him is almost too much to bear, so he reluctantly picks up the phone and moves along on his original path.

_I can’t promise we’d be home for first period. Fair warning._

Okay, Lammermeier, what the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean? He stares at the texts until the black overtakes the screen again. Then, for the first time all day, he taps the notification. Curiosity getting the better of him once again, he types out a reply and actually presses send.

_as mysterious as that sounds, my parents are still up_

Some part of him hopes that Otto will give up, but a louder part of him wants him to fight back. Show some sort of positive emotion toward him. 

_So are mine._

Not promising, but also unexplanatory. Overall: unhelpful.

_I’ll pick you up at one._

Whether it’s the casual tone in his messages that suggests nothing is out of the ordinary or the all but alien feeling of someone making an effort to be there for him, Georg can breathe again. Even if it’s only for that moment, and heavy footsteps down the hall next to his door send him vaulting into bed like he’s diving for cover, he remembers what it feels like. Now, instead of begging for sleep, he fights to keep his eyelids open. The possibility of genuine human connection that doesn’t leave him internally bruised leaves him on a high that’s dragged down only by physical exhaustion. 

When one finally rolls around, he’s sitting by the end of his bed in the dark, silent and hardly breathing, waiting and praying to hear the tv click off. He abandoned being on the bed after he nodded off, waking in a panic only fifteen minutes later and frantically checking the time. He might as well be in the room watching tv next to his mom; he’s been listening so intently. Sitting and waiting for the voices on whatever plays this late on TLC to shut off in the middle of a sentence, when his phone calls it one, the voices of people crazy enough to get on TLC still echo through the quiet house like the quiet rain after the last boom of thunder. He can’t risk trusting that she fell asleep mid-episode as the sound of the front door opening on top of dramatic sound effects would almost surely wake her. Just as he closes his eyes to think of some other way out, the sound of a not-so-new car engine rumbles closer, then cuts out at its loudest: no doubt Otto’s truck rounding the corner to wait. For confirmation, on the floor next to him, his phone buzzes. 

Across the room, his last resort, his window, looms over him. He’s only attempted to climb out once: to play with Hanschen during a grueling two week grounding when they were nine. The memory of his friend’s wide eyes, unsure whether to call for help and risk getting in trouble or flee, along with the shooting pains from his newly sprained wrist, burned that lesson deep in his mind. On the other hand, he’s grown easily a foot and a half since that incident, so getting to the ground is no longer a leap of faith. 

The only other issue that arose from that scarring experience: he hasn’t attempted to even open the window since. He knows he _could_ get it open, the latch system isn’t any puzzle, but it’s practically cemented in place from both lack of use and the age of the house. Outside waiting for him, though, is Otto. Not only Otto, but an escape he desperately needs. The chance to get far, far away from familiar houses and roads and all of their negative words for him. He’d much rather people wonder where he’d gone in the morning than deal with another day of their sour attitudes. 

He slides the lock as carefully as he can, but it holds tight to its dormant position. The ancient paint on the frame is peeling in places, but it holds to the latch with a dying grip. When he manages to yank it open, teeth gritted, it squeaks and punctures through the heavy air in the room like a needle stabbing a pillow. He doesn’t know whether to yell right back at it or try to dive back into bed in case someone comes to check on him. Frozen in place, he holds his breath to listen for footsteps or movement accented by creaks. After enough time passes to breathe again, he looks back at the window with spite. If he remembers correctly, the frame is poorly installed and weak, just like everything else in the house. Last time it slid open easily, so if eight years of rain and rust and spiderwebs and other junk haven’t clogged it up, this shouldn’t be too big of an issue. He’s home free. With a pat of his pocket to ensure his phone is with him, he pushes up with as little force as possible on the window. It doesn’t budge, but its resistance is pathetic. One genuine push and it’s wide open: a gaping rabbithole away from his problems. 

His feet hit the ground before he’s even fully out of his room. No fucked up wrist this time. Still, as he pushes it closed and turns around, he remembers the sight of Hanschen’s blond head running farther and farther away. He remembers trudging to the front door, his wrist tucked behind his back, too nauseating to even look at, and ringing the doorbell. Hanschen took his sweet time approaching him again after that, even when everyone crowded him and his brace. 

Otto must see him coming, because the truck’s engine is kicked to life as he walks up to the passenger door. He barely gets out a greeting as he climbs in and shuts the door, his throat still raw and scratchy from the dehydration and general weeping. He tries to clear it, but that only pokes the wound. Otto hardly acknowledges him until they’re out of the neighborhood entirely. Georg doesn’t complain or initiate any sort of conversation until he takes a moment to breathe for real, not constricted to taking in half a breath at a time. He watches out the rearview mirrors as they pass stoplight after stoplight, the highway drawing nearer and nearer. Before long, though, the silence feels too familiar. It’s right back at his throat, and he doesn’t want to be caught underwater again. He wants to ask questions or thank him or say _something,_ but Otto’s eye’s haven’t left the dark remnants of a horizon. For whatever reason his long past exhausted mind accepts, he hates the thought of interrupting whatever he’s got going on. 

Before long, he settles into the conclusion that the dark and the quiet complement each other well. Whether that’s him giving up again or truly appreciating his surroundings, he doesn’t want to think about it too much. Streetlights speed by, but the light they emit can’t quite push through the heavy, almost tangible dark well enough to be of much use. They reach the last stoplight before the freeway, and the red light allows him to really see Otto’s face through the black. His features rest on his face, not so much stoic or concentrated as he thought, but more relaxed. Content. His right hand rests on the shift, his middle finger tapping to the beat of the turn signal. The steady thump against the leather reminds him of a heart beat. 

“Thank you,” Georg says through the pain in his throat. His hand lifts to his adam’s apple, and he hums quietly, testing the strain on his vocal chords. 

“You don’t need to thank me, man,” Otto says, shifting in his seat as the light turns green. “It’s always better to run away with another person than by yourself.” 

The highway is much better lit, so Georg leans back into the corner of his seat. From there, he watches Otto talk without turning his head from the road or hesitating in his motions. “You think?” 

“Even better, not only are you with someone else, that someone else has a truck and knows places to run to.” He doesn’t even laugh at his own joke. It doesn’t fall flat; it hangs to the ceiling for when its time is right. He pauses to let out a long breath, and suddenly Georg sees him in grainy black and white, an actor in an old picture blowing out cigarette smoke in the middle of his scene. His smooth confidence would serve him well back then. The more he pictures it, the more perfectly he sees Otto fit in with the cars and the clothes. His voice almost comes to a surprise when it speaks again, snapping Georg out of his momentary trance. “I’m not gonna pretend I know what this feels like for you.” 

Georg waits for more, for a but or a so or something to complete the thought, but nothing comes. His face doesn’t show any signs of waiting for words or a thought to finish brewing before he speaks, something he’s noticed before. Honestly, this Otto isn’t like any Otto he’s seen before. “Thank you.” His voice creaks like the doors in his house, and the phrase ends more with breath than sound. A cough builds in his chest, and the pain coupled with it makes him want to wince. Once his distraction passes, he looks again to Otto, who’s resigned himself back to silence. He’s never the type to waste conversation on half formed ideas or a scratchy throat. Georg wants to talk and complain until he tastes blood with every word and until Otto drops him on the side of the road and drives away, but his exhaustion creeps up on him again like a sheet thrown over a birdcage. He shoves his shoulder into the door for some attempt at comfort, and he can no longer control his consciousness. 

Light pries open his eyelids with a crowbar. The sudden and extreme exposure makes him think he slept all the way into the morning, but once he blinks through the blindness to some degree, he sees the artificial shine of fluorescent lighting is the real culprit. The engine of the truck settles into silence like a breeze that whispers so close to your ear it turns your head. 

“Where are we?” Georg asks, his eyes still shutting to the intensity of the light. The first thing he notices is his throat: it’s not as freshly wounded anymore, and he can speak quietly without tearing it open again. 

“Just stopping for gas,” Otto says, elbowing his door open. “And coffee.”

Many thoughts run through his mind- he considers offering to go into the store for him so he can stay with the car or just yelling after him to get him water- but by the time the words for either finally float into real sentences on the roof of his mouth, he’s long gone. As suddenly as anything can feel moments after waking up, he realizes, embarrassingly, that they aren’t just driving around to get out for an hour or two. Otto’s going somewhere, and he’s just along for the ride. He’s in the business of running away. His phone tells him it’s nearly three, but the sky doesn’t look any different than just past one. It’s still the heavy black that only strong highway and gas station lights can fight through. He wants to fall asleep again, let the smell of gasoline and the truck provide him some sort of comfort, but he can just about see through the bright, abstract mass of colors and through the windows of the store. He feels bad leaving Otto alone with the dark and the highway again, especially right after he saved his wallowing ass. He might not be able to talk much, but if Otto can be a comforting presence without words, so can he.

His head hits the glass, and the vibration shakes him awake. Fuck. They’re moving again, the gas station nowhere to be seen. _Fuck._ He can’t even stay awake long enough to convince himself not to fall asleep. Pain aches from where his glasses leave imprints on his temple and the side of his nose. When he lifts his hand to take them off, the image of the stranger he becomes without them flashes through his mind and chills him to the bone. He’s already been knocked majorly out of sync, and he’d rather not lose the little connection between his body and his mind left. The disassociation swirling around his mind and clouding most of his senses is doing plenty on its own. A headache stirs behind his ears and the bridge of his nose. Dehydration, maybe, plus the way his stress adds tension to the blood trudging through his veins, making his arms ten times heavier than they should be. 

He’s in a full body cast. His brain decided he could no longer handle conscious control, so it sedated him and wrapped him in bandages and plaster and bubble wrap until nothing could get in or out. He feels so _fragile,_ like any touch on his arm would leave a quilt of bruises that expand out from the point of contact until his whole body is black and blue. Like squid ink. A warning sign, showing that he’s been hurt and scared and threatened, but never seen as a sign to retreat. Everyone would see how breakable he is. 

“I got you some water.” Otto’s voice finds its way through the folds of the bandages and rings right where his headache sits. “I would have given it to you straight away, but I didn’t want to wake you up. I wasn’t prepared to gauge the importance of water versus sleep in your situation.”

While Otto talks, he wrenches open the water bottle and downs half of it with hardly a thought. He’s glad he slept, though. This new fragility seems to have erased the tension built up in his muscles. Maybe he can bruise instead of cry, now. 

The things that can find their way through his defenses deserve to be held close.

“I think it’s stopped hurting so bad,” he says. “At least physically.” He still feels the strain on his vocal chords, but that’s probably the longest sequence of words he’s spoken in hours. “I was…” he takes another swig of water like it’s something stronger. “I was numb, you know, when you texted me. But now… it’s a different type of numb. I had just dulled the pain. Maybe now it’s actually subsiding.”

“That’s good,” Otto says. “That’s good.” For the first time since he woke up again, he turns his head to look at Otto, and he looks back. It’s the first genuine eye contact he’s made with anyone all day. Jesus Christ. Otto offers the best smile he has for driving, running on only coffee and pure spirit, and Georg wonders if he gets through the cracks in Otto’s skin the same way. When he breaks to pay attention to the road, Georg hopes wherever they’re going they can hold eye contact. He’s the first person all day not too afraid to meet his eyes, and it’s more physical comfort than either of the empty hugs from the two people who bothered. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nice. Somewhere you don’t need to put on a mask, but somewhere that’ll get nice and under your skin until you can’t feel so pitiful anymore.”

“So... the beach?”

Otto laughs, and the way it resonates fills Georg’s chest with air that feels fresher than any breath he’s taken in a while. More impressively, it makes him want to laugh with him. “Yes. I’m not very good at being mysterious, am I?”

“You’re an open book to me, Otto.” It comes out much more sincere than he means it to, and the rush of fear crowds his throat again. He waits for Otto to retaliate, to call him fucked up or disgusting, or to turn the truck around. But nothing happens. He takes it in without a second thought, and it seems to make him happier.

“I’m hardly complex enough to be mysterious, anyway.”

“It doesn’t suit you, you know. Mystery.”

“I’m glad you think that, Georg.”

And, fuck. That hit deep. Is that what he sounded like before he flinched away? Fuck. 

When he smiles, the tears embedded in his skin start to crack away. 

The cool he felt alone in his bedroom, shivering with sobs and hysterics, is nothing compared to the wind that greets him as he opens the car door to step out onto the sand. The sea breeze is startlingly chill for this late in April, and he crosses his arms to shield himself. As he reaches back to get his third bottle of water, he hears Otto hoist himself into the bed of the truck, and he hesitates, his hand resting on the door to close it. He waits, letting Otto have his moment to breathe in this place he loves. It’s just enough time for him to let his mind wander.

48 hours ago, being some 4 or 5 hours away from home with Otto would make his head spin and his stomach flip. It would send his mind off sprinting a marathon, wondering why and how and what it meant for them. 48 hours ago, he’d climb into the truck, pull Otto close, and kiss him. Screw insecurity and fear and all that bullshit. With a setting like this, he wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to make it memorable. Deep down, he has that gut instinct; that confidence. But given recent circumstances, it’s been… momentarily squashed. Because 24 hours ago, he’d run just to be away from everything, including his own mind. Even with Otto next to him, the hurt still tore too deep to really care. The brand new wound was still too fresh. Too raw. Out of fear, he’d push Otto away. Not let anyone care about him, even if they tried. 24 hours ago, he needed to be alone to berate himself and tear apart everything he could reach. 

Right now, he plants his foot on the metal over the tire and swings his other leg into the bed. Otto shifts over to make room for him to sit, and he lets the crashing waves drown out the noise in his head. 

“I don’t know how to start this conversation,” he says. It isn’t a lack of things to say, more a case of not knowing where to start, or if Otto wants to hear about it at all. 

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Otto says. 

“I just can’t… I don’t want to bottle it up anymore. And you drove us all the way out here, I’d feel bad if I didn’t tell you anything. I _want_ to talk.”

“Dude, I brought you out here so you could get away from this problem. I’m not expecting anything from you.” He really could kiss him just for that. He really could. “I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, though. It’s just us and the ocean, and I’ve found it keeps secrets better than most people.” 

Georg smiles. It feels nice to do that after so long, especially when there’s such a good reason for him to smile. Still, the uncertainty displays clearly on his face.   
Only the ocean and them. 

“It feels like I’ve lived a year just today. Like every second is an hour but no time really passes at all. I just… it could have all been a lot worse, I guess, and… there were times I wish it _was_ worse. Like, I can only handle so many people only acknowledging me to make sure I’m not jerking off to their Instagrams. At this point, it would be so much easier to just get beaten up.” When he looks up, Otto sits with his eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to make sense of what he says. He nods for him to keep going, though. “Here, it’s like when someone should be mad at you, like, _furious,_ but they’re just being really passive aggressive. And their tone is just so aggravating you think you’d feel better if they just screamed at you. And you want to scream at _them_ to stop being so evasive about it.” He pauses, and it takes a moment for Otto to pick up that he needs him to respond. Even if he tells him he makes absolutely no sense, he needs to know he’s still at least pretending to listen.

“I think I get what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Maybe not to the same degree, but I know what it’s like to…” Georg isn’t sure he’s ever heard Otto trail off mid-sentence like this before. As he considers his next words, the knees he pulled to his chest fall. “I know what it’s like to be screaming at the top of your lungs just trying to get the same reaction out of someone else. Like no matter how much you try, you can’t get them to react. Not even negatively. They just stay… neutral.”

Georg nods. The biggest thing pressing against the front of his head and forcing its way out still stings to think about, but it’s what’s still making him feel the worst. He knows there’s no going back if he tells Otto. If only he didn’t need to tell _someone._

Only the ocean and them.

“Hanschen told me not to talk to him anymore.” It all comes out quickly, and he stumbles halfway through when he realizes what he’s saying. He feels like he’s been balancing a glass bowl of water on his head, trying not to let it fall and shatter on the floor, and he suddenly gave in and chucked it across the room. He’s so angry. Why would Hanschen prioritize his stupid image over being there for his best friend? 

_“What?”_ Otto’s shock is blatant even with the low lighting. He can tell he wants to move closer and give some sort of physical comfort from the way he’s looking at him. He sees that in Thea and Anna and even sometimes Hanschen, even though the latter rarely acts on it. If he does, it’s stiff and almost uncomfortable. It makes Georg want to hold his posture straighter and try not to need a hug in the future. “I didn’t think he’d do something like that. He seemed really cool.” He wrings his hands in his lap. “Dude, I’m so sorry you have to deal with that bullshit from your best friend.” 

With a sharp breath, Georg lies back and rests his head on his hands. Otto joins him, and almost immediately, when his mind sets off the automatic fireworks, things feel almost normal. For a moment, he can pretend he’s not sharing his issues with the boy he likes- also, he reminds himself, the only person still speaking to him. He could reach over and touch Otto’s face with ease, and if Otto extended his arm, he could fit right up against his side.

“If I tell you something, will you swear not to tell anyone?” Georg asks. “And, I mean, really anyone. This stays right here.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were coming out,” Otto says. Then he looks over, and he’s sincere again. “Cross my heart.”

He knows it’s not his secret to tell. If it weren’t the big thing leading back to what’s making this extra shitty, he might actually feel bad. But secrets mean nothing to him anymore, so what does it really matter? “Hanschen likes Ernst.” He squeezes his eyes shut, no longer interested in his reaction.

“Oh.”

And that’s why it matters. Guilt seeps into his skin like he just got bowled over by a wave. Forcing it back out, he reminds himself Hanschen deserves this for how petty and selfish he’s being. “He thinks, with Ernst being super religious and all, he doesn’t want me to…” He’s back reading the original text, alone in his room. After he sent at least eight asking why he wouldn’t make eye contact or help him or answer his calls, he finally got his response. “He doesn’t want me to scare him away.”

“So he’s going to pretend he’s homophobic?”

He doesn’t like the anger in Otto’s voice. He wishes he’d say that it makes sense. He just wants something to feel justified and not as dramatic and horrible as he’s pretending it all is. “Everybody’s ditching me, Otto. If he’s the only one who doesn’t, people will assume he’s gay too.”

“But that’s not your fault, and he’s blaming you.”

“I can’t do anything about that! I can’t teach the entire school of asshole teenagers not to be homophobic any more than I can get the point across that I’m not even gay.” Opening his eyes, he lets the stars meet his gaze. There are a lot more out here than in the hub of the suburbs. 

“You’re not?”

His head whips to the side to catch the tail end of an emotion he knows isn’t positive flash across Otto’s face. “Well, technically, no,” he says, the cogs in his brain pushing and pushing to analyze his tone. Two words isn’t much to work off of, especially not in the middle of a conversation, but it’s the most important thing to him all of a sudden. “I mean, I still like girls. So I’m bi, I guess. We both are.” Despite the little change in Otto’s facial expression at his mistake, he hurries to correct himself. “Not, like, ‘we’ meaning _us._ Me and Hanschen. That ‘we.’” 

When Otto doesn’t respond, he swears involuntarily under his breath. That brings a smile to Otto’s face, like he only comprehends the most recent thing said to him at a time. Like somehow he moves on with a completely blank slate from sentence to sentence. Georg thanks the dim lighting for being just poor enough that Otto can’t recognize that he’s staring at him like he’s trying to unscramble the letters to a word he’s never heard of. 

“Are you not gonna say anything to that?”

“Do you want me to say something?”

“I don’t know.”

And it’s true. No matter what he says, half the time he only says it to get some sort of reaction. And Otto hardly reacts to anything. They make quite the difficult pair that way.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” 

What can he say? He knows how to get reactions out of people. Otto visually flinches back from the impact. He opens his mouth, and when nothing comes out, he tries to clear his throat. Eventually, after stammering out half-words like he’s Georg all of a sudden (Georg has _never_ seen him like this- it’s a little strange), he gets out a very exasperated _“What?”_

“I want to know why you’re going out of your way to be here for me when you’re literally the only person who’s spoken to me like a normal person today. I mean, you’re the only person who texted me something that didn’t make me want to throw up, and you took me all the way out here, and you drove the whole way, and I just fell asleep and left you alone. And yet, here you are, missing school and disappearing without a trace just to talk to me about all the shit I’ve been dealing with. Why?”

Again, it takes him a minute to find words. Maybe he’s shuffling around in a pool of the wrong thing to say like Georg does, or maybe he doesn’t know the answer to the question at all. Out of the corner of his eye, Georg can see the blue of the sky is starting to brighten. It won’t be long until sunrise. “Because I care about you. Because leaving someone completely alone when they need people more than anything is one of the shittiest things a human can do to another human. Because my ego isn’t so big I can’t face assholes who think hanging out with someone gay makes you gay too. So even if it’s just you and me for as long as it takes, I’m not gonna desert you.”

His tone is so enrapturing Georg almost doesn’t hear the subtext to what he’s saying. He swims on the surface level, closing the gate to deeper thought and interpretation. Hearing Otto say he cares could carry him through a whole lot of bullshit, and he can’t help but nod and smile. As he mumbles out a thank you, a leak springs somewhere deep inside and he hears a broken monotone ramble on and on the same phrase: Otto’s not gay. He’s not gay. He’s not gay. 

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to be upset. No matter how hard he tries, he’s been nothing but upset for so long that it seems inconsequential by comparison. He can cry over it in a week or a month or a year because right now, so what if he doesn’t like him back? So what if this strange friendship they’ve formed won’t become anything near where he hoped it would? He still sits up to let Otto hug him and to hug him back. He still closes his eyes and decides being in his arms more often definitely would not be a bad thing. He still lets Otto’s arm drape around his shoulders as they sit back against the truck. And if, once he’s talked all he can talk on the matter, he leans closer and rests his head on Otto's shoulder, neither of them have the energy to complain. He just says something about how long of a day it’s been as Georg once again slips in and out of consciousness and relaxes with Georg’s weight in his side.

He wakes him up shortly after he falls asleep for good. It’s quiet; just a gentle nudge of his shoulder and whisper of his name. Not enough to make him change his position.

“The sun is rising,” he says.

Georg doesn’t move his head, but he lets his hand drift up to remove his glasses. The deep blue of the ocean mixes with the orange peeking out over the horizon, and eventually they all blur together. He’s no physical artist. Where one color shifts and blends into another is of no real importance to him. As if all this time it waited for the light to begin again, he is hit with the scent of the sea and the salt of the sand. The breeze that cut across his cheeks now traces the edges and curves of their bodies, passing over where they meet in the middle as if they really are one, completely indistinguishable from one another.

Once he’s gotten more sleep, he wants to go out and sit where the waves roll over the sand like a carpet. He wonders if Otto needs to be back home, or if they can run around in the tide and pretend there are no thoughts behind their grins.

Maybe after some more sleep, more things will make sense, and they’ll swim and drive and sing and pretend and forget, if only for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise eventually something bad will happen to Otto and not Georg, but fuck it, quarantine hits hard and I wanted to write more sadness. Title is from Kathryn Gallagher's "Friends To Entertain" and if you haven't listened to her new EP yet you need to go do that.


End file.
